OPTIONS
beginning
to
seek
something freer
not
concertinaed
shadowd
folds
uncreased
reinforced
liquidity
&
fluidity
of
dimensional
reality
celebrating
the
involvement
&
process
the
occasional
made explicit
identity.
revealed
in
a non-narrative
oriented
&
regular
participation
&
actually
active
with images
of sights
of sounds
in
the
particular
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
Dogs recognize me, own me,
cats tolerate the space I move in.
Long nights have concertinaed the days
into narrowing perspectives,
yet still a pencil thin sunrise
is worth getting up for.
I hear a train coming
it is loaded with happy waving children;
they lean out of the window
their gaily colored scarves
fly in the wind.
O no, another train
coming fast
on the opposite track.
O no, everyone is headless.
I am headless
even though I was not on the train.
The dogs are yelping, the cats
are as stiff as statues.
My eyes are half-open
like train carriage windows.
My head is rolling now into 2020,
apart from the sink holes, fault lines
and cliff edges, it will be, of course,
all downhill,
and I'm thinking:
'it's great to be alive.'
I woke at midnight, the digital clock like an electric rooster
It doesn’t tick but I hear the seconds pass with emphasized thud, thud, thud,
The kingdom of white, sterile, eunuchs wound by clockwork
Into the storm upon the horizon, placed within a bone china teacup
Drifting but safe from all unsavoury lesser gods or lesser men
Nothing remotely stimulating or challenging beside the saline drip
Thinking aloud but when the words fall out, almost just a mutter, a gust of air
It’s a world of obsessive compulsives, a wave of disinfectant, when sat beside
Your bland medical notes and records, the Holy Grail for overenthusiastic doctors
One mistake and you’re like a smeared fly, wings concertinaed into liquid
Your bones broken and oozing as some demigod’s thumb smears you out of history
But it’s still a calming whitewash, bleaching away or just coating the self-neglect
The machines, just how I’d imagine a clone’s manmade womb, an overcoat of wires
Regardless of appearance, it’s a calm tsunami which hits me like a war hammer
It’s a calming wave of silence and stumbled words when sat beside your bedside
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